Ich Dien - To Serve the Kingdom
by faustBZ
Summary: Tauriel considers it an act of love; Thranduil is less inclined to do so: all he sees is a neglect of duty, a missing prince, and a heavy price to pay. Post DoS. "He is ready to explode at any second, but—as Thranduil is very well aware—his legendary temper is much more intimidating if visibly constrained; the quiet before the storm usually more effective than the gale unleashed."
1. The Messenger

_Für Claudia_

**Ich dien – To Serve the Kingdom**

_by faust_

**1**

**The Messenger**

Thranduil has retired to his private chambers by the time the scout returns to the stronghold. It is late at night already; and even though a king's work is never done and Thranduil is everything but lax in his performance of duty, he has more than his kingdom to look after, more concerns, more obligations. And he has been negligent of this particular responsibility long enough anyhow. First the confounded dwarves, then the new darkness… He has wasted too much precious time already in negotiating, interrogating, punishing, being irate and erratic, when he should have been caring and warm and predictable.

He sighs when notified of the long awaited arrival and, because this is a matter that admits no delay, orders the messenger be brought to his rooms. Under normal circumstances he would not receive soldiers in his solar, for here only the family is allowed, and a few very close friends or selected attendants: Galion (who is both butler _and_ friend—still, and despite the fact that the dwarves would not have escaped without Galion's disastrous love for wine), the chambermaid, the healer. But this is no normal circumstance and Thranduil truly wishes to stay here right now and waste no more time, and so he pulls a regal robe over his nightdress and welcomes the exhausted member of the palace guard with a curt nod.

"My Lord," he is greeted with a deep bow.

He waves his hand impatiently. As much as he values courtly ceremony and proper formality, tonight he prefers this conversation to be quick and to the point. He _can_ be down-to-earth—if he so wishes.

"Speak." He does not tap his foot. The messenger appears uncomfortable enough as it is. Thranduil does raise an eyebrow, though. And then it strikes him: the messenger _is_ ill at ease. One does not need five millennia of experience to know that this does not indicate favourable news. He steadies himself, finds a better-rooted stand. His voice is firm. "Were you able to locate Prince Legolas and Captain Tauriel?"

"We…no…yes…"

Now the king does tap his foot. Once, twice, three times. A fourth time with emphasis. He drops his voice an octave, albeit—with more effort than he prefers—refrains from an undignified growl. "Were you?"

"Captain Tauriel left the palace, and apparently the prince followed her."

That much Thranduil had already discerned. There had been a reason, after all, for sending out scouts—against his own orders that no one were to leave or enter the stronghold. He is ready to explode at any second, but—as Thranduil is very well aware—his legendary temper is much more intimidating if visibly constrained; the quiet before the storm usually more effective than the gale unleashed. And the guard is really trying his patience.

"And pray tell," Thranduil says oh-so-softly, raising his eyebrow to ultimate altitude, "where are they headed?"

The guard seems to shrink into himself. _Does he tremble?_ "It appears, my Lord, that they went to Laketown."

Another single tap of the foot, and the guard looks into his king's face. A slight tilt of Thranduil's head prompts him to continue his report—although haltingly and with obvious discomfort.

It soon becomes apparent why he is so uneasy: Legolas and Tauriel apparently have found the dwarves in Laketown, or at least some of the group. Thranduil's interest flares up mildly at that news, but soon dies down again. The dwarves are not that important. A mere annoyance. And they cannot be stopped in whatever they are about to do now anyway.

Thranduil is much more alarmed by the report of a goblin attack on the unprepared and almost helpless town. It does not surprise him to hear that Legolas and Tauriel have taken it upon themselves to defend the town—he is both horrified and proud of the aspect of his son and the captain of his guard fighting against a whole band of _yrch_ all on their own. The horror soon outweighs the proudness, however, when he hears that Tauriel abandoned the battle as soon as the goblins had been driven out of the house that accommodates the dwarves and that she left Legolas to pursue the fight on his own.

The guard cannot say why she did that, only that she stayed with the dwarves while Legolas went after the fleeing goblins.

"Mayhap she was injured?" the king suggests—the only explanation he can think of.

The guard averts his gaze again. "No, my Lord. It does not appear so. She was seen later…whole and hale."

"And Legolas?"

The guard shakes his head. "We do not know. No one has seen him after—"

And that is the moment Thranduil decides to unleash the storm. During the tale he has gone from angry to enraged to exceedingly enraged. He is livid. "Where is he?" he thunders. "Have you not searched for your prince?"

"Sire…my Lord, we tried, but there was no trace. We did not know what to do..." The guard recedes, carefully, one, two steps. He looks apologetically at his king, then his gaze shifts slightly to the left and over Thranduil's shoulder, his eyes growing wide.

"We will have to search for him. He is in danger, I feel that," it comes from the door behind Thranduil's back; the soft voice easily drowning out the roaring inside his mind.

He fleetingly registers the guard's low bow and stammered "my Lady" before he turns around, calm floating him already and his tightly composed features relaxing into the face that is familiar only to her.

"You are awake," he states the obvious, amazed.

She smiles as she tilts her head and opens her arms in a mockery of a bow; but the jest lasts only for a short moment, then she is serious again. "I was restless," she says. "Something distressed me, tore at me. I could not fathom…could not…and then I heard you, and I knew."

"Yet you should not be up."

"I am well enough."

"The healers say…" He trails off as he sees her eyes narrow.

He is the King of the Woodland realm, the ruler of the Silvan elves, a Sindar royal, powerful leader and redoubtable warlord—but he knows better than to argue with his wife. Determination has replaced the tiredness of late in Eryniel's face, a decisiveness that tells him opposition is futile.

Eryniel nods to the guard. "You may depart," she says in her melodic voice, and smiles faintly as the he gives her a look of pure relief and gratitude and makes a hasty retreat.

She waits until he has left the room, then takes Thranduil's hand and pulls him very close. "We have to search for Legolas," she repeats her initial words. "I fear for him. He is in great peril."

Thranduil closes his eyes. Eryniel confirms his deepest worry: Legolas is a formidable warrior, one of the finest in the realm, but he fights alone against a horde of _yrch_ and this might be beyond even his skills. He feels anger rising at the thought that his son has put his life in hazard so recklessly, that his captain has let him—and fear. Raw, naked fear for his only child's life. Eryniel would know if Legolas were safe: mother and child share a deep bond, and the connection between Eryniel and Legolas has always had an almost magic quality. But Eryniel is frightened for her son, and that terrifies Thranduil.

He would wish her to be wrong this one time, not only for Legolas's sake but also because—

"_I_ have to search for him," Eryniel says the inevitable. "_I_ will be able to find him."

"You cannot do that. It is too dangerous. It is too much." He tries, even though he knows his words will not make her change her mind.

And, of course, she shakes her head. "No, it is not too much. It is what I must do."

"But it will cost you." He does not add _too much_ or _more than I will be able to cope with_.

She hears it anyway. She has always heard what he did _not_ say. "Then it will cost me. It does not matter, you know that."

"You cannot go. You are needed here." _By me_, but he does not say that either.

"No, I am not. _You_ are needed here, my King. You have a kingdom to rule, and people to guide and protect. _I_ have to go and find my child. _Our_ child. To bring him back to safety."

It is no use discussing it any more. Eryniel is every bit as stubborn as Thranduil, her fast resolve only better hidden under a layer of soft, golden gentleness. This well-disguised strength had been only one of the many contradictions in the beautiful _elleth_ that had made Thranduil fall in love and want to spend eternity with her at his side all those millennia ago. Ever since he has cherished and accursed that trait: he never stands a chance against her determination. So he confines himself to negotiate the hows and whens of her mission, and they finally agree that the queen will leave the stronghold at sunrise the next morning, accompanied by a party of six trusted warriors.

"I will find him," Eryniel says as he leads her back to her bed to get her as much rest as possible before the morn. "I will bring him back, I promise."

He understands the pledge is made not only for _his_ sake.

* * *

Sindarin, just in case...

orch/pl. yrch = orc = goblin

* * *

_Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended._


	2. The Queen

For the purpose of the story I changed Bain's age (which Mr. Jackson made up for TDOS anyway - Tolkien never says when Bain was born. So I felt safe to make the change.)

* * *

**Ich dien – To Serve the Kingdom**

_by faust_

**2**

**The Queen**

Tauriel has just changed the bandage on Kili's thigh for the third time since the previous night when there is a short rattle and then the door opens to reveal a small group of elves. The tall leader's gesture is almost invisible, but it keeps her two escorts rooted next to the entrance while she steps into the room.

The people of Laketown do not know the Woodland queen. Nor do the dwarves from the Blue Mountains. The Lady of Greenwood has not left the King's Halls for generations of men, and while she occasionally attends feasts, she never takes part should strangers be present. For those outside of the Woodland she has become a mere myth, a phantasy, and some do not even believe there ever was a queen in Greenwood. Yet there is no doubt about who has just entered the house. The Queen Eryniel does not need any regalia to convey she is of royalty; it is in her poise, in her regard, in her features. Even her elaborate riding cloak exudes her majesty.

Tauriel can feel Kili's leg tense under her hand. He must assume the party has come to arrest him, and he is without his friends. Fili, Oin and Bofur have left the house only minutes before, finally convinced that Tauriel presents no danger, will not betray their trust. They had errands to run, they declared, but did not elaborate further.

They have grown close, Tauriel and Kili, after she has saved his life. She feels as if she has saved her own life, too, or at least part of her own life. Perhaps her heart. Certainly, her heart has not beaten quite so strongly and happily as it has been doing ever since Kili has smiled at her so. Ever since she has realised that fondness does not measure people in foot and inch. She could not bring herself to leave Kili's side after she was able to force the Morgul poison out of his body and knew he would live. She has stayed with him during the night, tending him, holding him, comforting him. And taken comfort in that herself.

Now her comfort gives way to a slight unease. Tauriel cannot fathom why the queen should have left the stronghold so suddenly, and why she has come to Laketown and to Bard's house. Of course, the king must by now know that the dwarves have found shelter here; Legolas will have delivered the word. But the king would not send the queen to lead an arrest party. As to that, the king would not send the queen out into the open for any reason. It does not make sense that she is here. Not at all. What could Legolas possibly have told the king that would urge the queen to emerge from her years-long seclusion?

_Legolas_. With a pang of guilt Tauriel realises that she has not devoted a single thought to him since she decided to stay and heal Kili. Since she deliberately ignored his call, _twice_. "Tauriel, come!" Yes, she had heard that. But she did not obey the command, chose to defy it. _Him_. Her superior. Her friend. Chose Kili over him.

She bites her lip. She chose Kili over Legolas, over her friend, her...foster-brother. Her brother who had stuck to her, had followed her—disregarding the king's express orders—to protect and support her against a supremacy of enemies. "You cannot hunt thirty orcs on your own," he had said, and come with her, had fought the goblins with her, as she had known he would.

And then she had chosen to defy his command, his call, his plea. Had left him to fight the remaining orcs on _his_ own, knowing they were retreating already. Knowing he would not take unnecessary risks. _Hoping_ it, at least.

She looks down at Kili, who lives and will be hale and healthy again very soon. It was the right thing that she did. Nevertheless she will have to make amends for her decision, will have to make it up to Legolas. Explain it to him. Surely, Legolas will understand she could not have abandoned Kili, could not have let him die when she knew she could heal him. Legolas might not hold the dwarves in high regard, but he is more compassionate than he likes to let people think. He will understand that she could not have followed him because Kili needed her more. That she knew Legolas could look out for himself.

"Tauriel."

Belatedly she becomes aware that she has not yet greeted her queen. She bows her head, a little deeper than formally required. "My Lady," she starts, but is interrupted by the usually so courteous queen.

"I take it you are well?"

"Yes, my Lady."

The queen nods. It is curt and something in her face is awry, as if she has unlearnt how to smile. "I thought so," she says. Her gaze sweeps through the room, lingers briefly on Kili, a little longer on Bard's children, who are huddled in one corner and stare back at the imposing figure with blatant reverence, then settles back on Tauriel. "Where is Legolas?"

The question slices the air like a sharp elven dagger. It sunders _then_ from _now_, _before_ from _after_, certainty from trepidation. Legolas has not returned to the king's halls. And the queen…

This is bad. This is worse than bad. It is a catastrophe.

"Last I was aware of him he was following fleeing orcs, my Lady," Tauriel phrases carefully. "To ascertain they left the town."

The moment the words leave her mouth Tauriel knows them to be naught but a fruitless hope. Legolas is not one who merely observes. He is a person of action, and his loathing of goblins is as strong as any elf's. He will have pursued the orcs, will have sought further confrontation.

And he has not returned, neither to the stronghold nor to Bard's house.

The queen's face is blank. She closes her eyes for the duration of one deep breath in and one deep breath out, then looks back at Tauriel. "Why," she says very softly. "Why did you not accompany him?"

"Kili—the dwarf needed healing. He would have died without my help. I could not let that happen when it was in my ability to prevent it." It is a valid point. Tauriel knows the queen will not argue against it. She is not cruel; sympathy for those in need is deeply embedded in the Silvan elves and their king and queen.

"I see." The queen's gaze shifts to Kili, who squirms under the scrutiny. "Are you well now, Master Dwarf?"

"Aye, my Lady."

"Very well." Eryniel's face remains unsmiling yet not unfriendly as she nods. She looks back at Tauriel. "And after you healed him, you did—what?"

"I…" That is the crux, Tauriel knows that. What was perfectly natural and _right_ the night before might seem not so in the light of the new day. "I stayed with him to make sure he was well looked after."

"All night?"

"All night."

"So am I to understand that you neglected your duty to serve your king and protect your prince in order to nurse a fugitive captive?" Eryniel's voice is still soft, and there is no condemnation in it. Disappointment, however; yes, certainly disappointment. And sadness.

"I did not think the prince needed protection. And I did not think compassion—" Tauriel is almost glad she gets interrupted at this point. She knows she did the right thing—but why is it so difficult to explain it?

The disruption comes in the form of an elven warrior, who bursts through the front door and, after a short, wild look around the room, falls to one knee in front of the queen. "Nothing, my Queen," he says as he lays a hand over his heart and bows his head. "We found no trace of the prince. Only evidence of combat."

Tauriel closes her eyes. _Of course_…

There is a sharp intake of breath from the queen. "And no one has seen him?"

"No, my Lady."

"And…nothing? Anything else?"

"We found warg tracks and those of a horse, leading out of town."

"Wargs?" It is not much more than a gasp from the corner in which Bard's children have been standing and witnessing quietly ever since the queen has entered the house. Then commotion, scuffling, "let me," "no, stay here," and "I want to—" more scuffling, a tussle; then a thud and a cry. "Ow!"

The weeping of a child, hushed words "It's not so bad, come on. Be still." More crying.

A child cries. No elf ignores a crying child. They all turn around to the weeping _pen-neth_: a small boy, not a babe anymore; but certainly he has not yet received his first bow. He is sitting on the floor, his hands clutching his leg. His knee is bleeding.

Two girls, one not much older than the boy, the other close to adolescence, are bent over him, trying to console him.

The Queen of Greenwood crouches down in front of the child. "There, there," she says. "Did you fall?"

The boy nods.

"He hurt himself as we took cover under the table last night," one of the girls supplies. "Got caught on a splintered stool. It scabbed over, but now he's fallen on it and it's bleeding again."

"Oh. Let me see." The queen's voice is low and even in the few words there is a melody, a tune that sings of summer and brightly green moss and soft wind. It is soothing—to everyone in the room.

The boy looks up into her face, his eyes wide. He takes his hands off his leg. "Hurts," he whispers.

"It looks painful," the queen concords. Then she lays a pale hand on his knee, covers the wound with her elegant, long fingers. She is completely still, her face pensive, a small smile is curling her lips. Her eyes are locked with the boy's. A smell of forest fills the room. It lasts only a short moment, no longer than it takes a leave to fall from the crown of a tall tree.

As she removes her hand, the knee is unblemished. Where there was a wound a mere wink ago, is now only a patch of tender, pink skin.

The boy wipes away any left-over traces of blood with the sleeve of his shirt and stares at the queen who is still squatted on the floor, face to face with him. "How did you do that?" he asks.

He has witnessed Tauriel healing Kili the night before, has heard the chanting and seen the blinding halo. None of that happened this time. Of course, merely split skin is easier to heal than a wound inflicted by a poisoned arrow, but the queen's healing powers are very subtle in any case. It takes from her—Tauriel can see it in her drawn features, the increasing pallor of her already fair skin—even this small little act takes a lot, more, probably, than she has to give anymore. But the child is a boy, he is blond and blue-eyed and tiny, and he looks at the queen with trust and affection. Tauriel does understand the incentive.

"It is a moth—" Eryniel interrupts herself, smiles and shakes her head as if trying to free herself from an image. A memory, perhaps. "It is a secret," she says then, and an elegant movement brings the tip of her long, white finger up to touch her pursed lips for a half second.

"An elven thing?"

"Yes, little one."

She and the boy smile at each other as if sharing something special, and most probably they do exactly that. Then he flings himself onto her surprised chest, and instinctively she wraps her arm around the lithe body.

"Thank you," the boy whispers.

"You are very welcome, little one."

"His name is Bain," the older girl says shyly.

"_Bain_." Eryniel lowers her head so her face almost touches Bain's hair. "Bain," she repeats, and then she breathes a small kiss onto the blonde crown before she releases the child and rises, bracing herself briefly on the table.

Bain lets go of her only reluctantly, as if he knows what she is about to do. "Do you have to go now?" he asks.

"Yes, I am afraid I must."

"Why?"

"I must go and look after my own boy now," she says, and her smile touches her eyes.

"Is he hurt, too?"

"I do not know for certain..." Her smile falters. "But I am very much afraid he is."

Her gaze flickers to Tauriel, just for a split second, but it is enough to convey the accusation. Then she looks back at the boy, her expression tender; and she nods gracefully. "Fare well, little Bain."

She politely waits until Bain has pulled himself up enough to answer solemnly "Fare well, my Lady," and acknowledges the boy's ungainly bow with a rippling smile. Her piercing look sweeps over every occupant in the room, like a blessing—even Tauriel is included, and that is what makes the captain think she has not seen it rightly. Or perhaps…

"My Lady," Tauriel tries as the queen turns to stride towards the front door. "May I offer my help?"

Eryniel halts her steps as she passes Tauriel. She regards her for a moment, then says softly, "Your service is not required, Captain. I have half a dozen trustworthy warriors at my command—they will perform their duty very well." There is a hint of blue ice in her voice. Not a match for king's ability to spread frost with but a single word, but perhaps even more chilling because it is so outlandish for the queen to be anything but warm and kind. It is gone as quickly as it had come, and although there is still not much affection in her lady's voice, Tauriel can hear genuine concern in the next words. "I would, however, recommend you return to the stronghold immediately—or not at all."

Tauriel understands her perfectly well. She understands the queen is upset; but the Lady of Eryn Galen always has had an open ear for her people, has cared—and understood, too. Perhaps she will understand this as well.

"My Lady," Tauriel pleads, "I care for…for him." She stands close to Kili, but still feels the need to touch him, to make sure the queen knows about whom she is talking. Only much later it occurs to her that here exactly lies the problem of it all: the queen has known it all along. "I love him, that is why I had to…. Please, you must…as a woman, do you not understand I had to do it?"

The queen tilts her head. She smiles, and the warmth is back in it and the kindness that Tauriel has hoped to see. "No," she then says, however, and shakes her head. "As a _mother_ I do not."

Her gaze shifts to Kili, then back to Tauriel's face. It lingers there for a few moments, in which Tauriel feels scrutinised, soul-deeply searched and found…_wanting_. Then the queen turns away and with three purposeful paces reaches the door. She does not stop or look back as she says, "And as your queen, I do not understand either."

Another long stride, then the door snaps shut behind her.

* * *

Sindarin, just in case...

pen-neth = young one

Eryn Galen = Greenwood


	3. The Captain

**Ich dien – To Serve the Kingdom**

_by faust_

**3**

**The Captain**

There is a time of almost shocked standstill after the elves have left, a stunned quietness, before everyone picks up whatever they've done before. Bard's eldest, _Sigrid_, Kili means to remember, directs her siblings in cleaning up the mess from the fight of the night before. Still intact furniture is put straight, splintered items piled up next to the oven, some pieces set aside for repair. Household objects are picked up from the floor, broken goods separated from whole; things are cleaned, stacked back where they belong. They work silently, from time to time throwing short glanced towards the dwarf and the elf. They don't ask for assistance, and Kili is almost ashamed. He cannot help anyway. He is much better, he did not lie to the Woodland queen with that, but he still feels weak and exhausted, and his leg is throbbing and will most certainly not be able to carry his weight yet. He grunts, displeased with himself, and guiltily sinks more comfortably back into the pillows.

From his bed, he watches Tauriel busy herself with mundane tasks. So far, she has checked his bandaged leg two more times, sifted the assortment of healing herbs laid out on the kitchen desk, straightened his blanket, thrice, prepared a pain numbing tea and one to reduce a fever, accepted and eaten an apple Sigrid offered her, sliced up another one for Kili and would have handfed it to him had he not prevented her from it, cleaned her gear, smoothed a wet stone over her long knives, retrieved arrows from where they still stuck in walls, furniture, and the floor, sorted out those that were reusable, checked their fletching and stored them in her quiver. She is about to check his bandage yet again when Kili stills her hands by covering them with his own. He briefly marvels about how much broader his hands are than hers, which in comparison seem slender, almost svelte.

"Don't worry," he says. "It is well. _All_ is well."

She snorts in a very un-elven way. "No, it is not. Nothing is well. The queen…" She trails off, looks to the door as if the lady's essence were still perceptible there.

Perhaps it is, at least for Tauriel.

She bites her lip, fiddles with a loose thread at the hem of her sleeve. She's found it without even looking, she must have worried it a few times already this morning. There is not much left of the self-assured warrior of the night before.

"The queen…?" Kili prompts, and as there is no response he tries again with, "what is she going to do?"

"You heard her." Tauriel blinks. "Outside. She sent a guard back to bring word to the king, and she leads the others in quest of Legolas."

Kili has not heard any of that. He hasn't got elven ears, he can't hear things spoken outside. But what Tauriel says does not come unexpected. What is surprising, though, what truly baffles Kili, is that the Queen of the Woodland is leading the search party.

It is said that there have been few, very few female dwarven warriors in ancient times, but Kili is sure the talk is just that: talk. Dwarven women are protective of their families and they would not back away from defending them if need be, but they would never be part of any army or guard. Dwarven women rarely leave the privacy of their homestead. They do not participate in matters of the state, they are protected and kept from public display. They don't take on official tasks. A dwarven queen would certainly not ride with the guards, much less spearhead them. She would not undertake a position designed for a male. Kili's own mother, sister of Thorin and highest lady among the dwarves, would never venture far out of her halls, would never leave the seclusion of her home in pursuit of her missing son. She would never question it to be solely warriors' work. _Male_ warriors.

Of course, he understands elven customs are different. There's no mistaking in that with Tauriel being captain of the palace guard and having proved to be as fierce a warrior as any male elf; but the queen…. Surely, with the queen it must be different. The queen is precious, she cannot be imperilled. She must be protected, hidden, her kindness and beauty not exposed to the dangers of a scouting mission into the lands of the goblins.

Not that he considers the queen exceptionally beautiful. Even though elven beauty has slowly grown on Kili, Tauriel's in particular, by dwarven taste the queen is by no means attractive. Too tall, too smooth of skin, too silvery of voice. No beard. For an elf, though, she might be beautiful. Kili has to hold back a snort. If the queen is to be considered beautiful, then the prince must be, too. There is much resemblance, although the queen's hair is of a darker, warmer gold than that of her son, her eyes moss green opposed to the icy blue of his, her gaze warm and friendly where the prince's had been cold and dismissive. No question: he is her offspring in appearance; but his attitude is all inherited from the king.

Everything about the queen is warmer than whatever Kili has ever heard of the king or seen of Legolas: her eyes, her smile, her kind words for the boy—even her inquiry about his own wellbeing. She's warmer and…Kili can't put his finger on it…more delicate, perhaps. Yes, delicate. Frailer, almost…fragile. Kili frowns as he remembers the queen's exit: there was a brief faltering in her stride, an instability, almost a stumble. But elves don't stumble, do they?

"What's wrong with your queen?" he blurts out before he can stop himself.

Tauriel's head shoots up, her fingers let go of the fringe at her sleeve, her body tenses, her eyes are guarded. Suddenly she very much looks the palace guard that she is. A formidable paladin. "What do you mean? There is nothing _wrong_ with our queen."

Kili wishes the queen—and the king—could hear it. No one would doubt Tauriel's loyalty at this moment.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to offend. I just…" _How to put it into words?_ "She looks…unwell. Sickly." Yes, sickly, that's it. Every elf Kili has met so far has looked—despite the uncanny paleness—as hale and healthy as a person possibly could. But not the queen. Her pallor seemed even more vitreous, her features drawn and her movements a whit less fluid and light. As if she were sick. But elves don't get sick, do they? Well, elves do not stumble, too, and stumble the queen did. "She is sick, isn't she?"

Tauriel stares at him as if he were uttering something obscene. Something unmentionable. He's almost apologising again, almost taking it back, and if only to erase the look of dismay from Tauriel's face, but then she sinks down onto the side of his cot and starts talking in a low voice.

The queen, Tauriel says, is indeed unwell. She fell sick when the Shadow came upon Greenwood the Great, turning it into what now commonly is called Mirkwood. The queen, although a Sindar like her husband, is more attuned to the wood than anyone. She has loved, protected and nurtured the forest from the first day the elves had set foot into the Woodlands, has shown respect and devotion to it, and Greenwood reciprocated the sentiment, sharing its Song with her, guiding and sheltering her. But as healthy and beneficial the connection had been, as noxious and destroying it became as the Shadow fell upon the wood. What kills the wood now, is also killing its queen. Slowly, steadily, unstoppably.

Kili cannot believe there's no cure. He has experienced elven healing, he has felt how powerful it is. What was the herb Tauriel used on his leg to banish the evil sorcery? _Kingsfoil_, yes, that was it. He suggests kingsfoil, as if he had any notion.

But Tauriel shakes her head, saying that not even _athelas_ can heal Greenwood's queen. No matter what the healers try, the queen fades. The only thing that seems to at least slow the process is protecting her from the tainted woods. And so the Lady of the Woodland, the queen who loves the forest so much, has not seen a tree, has not left the stony fortress her husband has built for many decades.

And now she _has_ left the stronghold. Kili shudders at the thought of what that might entail. And he does not understand. "But when it's so dangerous, why has she left the stronghold now?"

"Legolas."

"I don't understand…"

And then Kili learns something about the elves' love for their children. About the strong bond between mother and child, about the ailing queen's iron will, and about King Thranduil's gentle affection for his family. Apparently there's one thing in which dwarves and elves don't differ so much: in the love for their children.

"They must be certain Eryniel can locate Legolas, easier and quicker than anyone else—or the king would never have allowed her to go," Tauriel says. "But I fear it will cost them dearly."

Kili also learns that the king's compassion for his family is mirrored in that for his subjects. He would do anything to protect his people, Tauriel says, anything to keep them from harm.

_Anything?_ Like…perhaps…arresting strangers who intrude his realm with obscure purpose? A realm that is already threatened by the dark, by foul beasts and evilness. A realm of people who have suffered great loss at the Last Alliance and just started to prosper again when the darkness fell back upon them. A realm of people who hence naturally would be wary of any presumed new threat.

Kili kneads his hands. As unreal as it occurs, suddenly he feels something akin to understanding for the Mirkwood king's actions. Thranduil's single-minded focus on his own people's interests might not be meant as an offense to others but is the elven king's way of protecting his kind. And, Kili has to allow, if Thranduil didn't look after his elves, who would? He's completely bereft of alliances, of help, or protection from other elven realms.

The little boy, Bain, yanks a splintered chair from below the remnants of the big table in the centre of the room. "Don't hurt yourself again," Kili hears one of the girls cry, and Bain's proud voice stating "I'm fine!"

Thanks to the Woodland Queen he is fine. Thanks to the queen who has come out of the shelter of her homestead to find and rescue her only son—thus exposing herself to the darkness that slowly kills her.

Kili can't help but feel...respect. He is not a parent, yet, but he is a prince of his folk and a warrior, and he understands what duty means and commitment, and where devotion ends and self-sacrifice starts. He also understands that sometimes that is a necessity, but it doesn't make the consequences easier to bear for anyone.

"So," he asks, just because he wants to be perfectly sure, "now the queen is out there, she will be…_affected_ even more?"

Tauriel nods. "It will make her worse. The Shadow, it…it feeds on her _fëa_."

"And she will die faster."

"Yes."

"Because you tended to me instead of keeping an eye on your prince's safety, and now she has to chase him down." Kili laughs humourlessly. "I'm sure Thranduil will hold the _dwarves_ responsible for that." It's surprisingly easy to follow the king's reasoning. If Kili is honest with himself, were he in Thranduil's position, he might conclude similarly.

But Tauriel shakes her head. "No. He will hold _me_ responsible for that."

She is worrying the loose thread on her sleeve again. Plucks and picks and pulls at it until it comes undone—then she stares at the thin wisp she twists between her fingers, almost mesmerised.

The children are still clearing the room from the debris of last night's destruction. There's the sound of something metallic falling down and touching the ground with a resonating, bright clonk; it startles Tauriel out of distraction and Kili out of watching her, and both their heads turn to the noise's origin.

"Sorry," Sigrid mutters as she picks up a bronze tankard. "Didn't mean to…"

Kili smiles reassuringly at the girl, Tauriel looks back at her hands, and then at the woollen strand as she lets it fall. It travels slowly down, in an almost swinging motion, dandled by the warm, dusty air.

"You have to go back," Kili says suddenly. "I shouldn't have asked you to stay. You neglected your duty—that's…"

Tauriel tears her eyes from the twine and looks up, alerted and defensive. "That is what? Wrong? For you of all people does it seem not right?" It's sharp, chiding. Not quite, but nearly as cold as the prince.

"I…no. _No_." Kili tries to sit up straighter, and flinches as the movement pulls at his wound. "You know I'm… I've told you how grateful I am. Tauriel…" He pronounces her name like an endearment—and it is one. „Tauriel, you saved my life. How could I hold you at fault for that?"

He reaches out, manages to catch her hand. He squeezes it, holds it, rubs his thumb over the back of it. "I love you," he says.

Her face relaxes. She lowers her head, bashfully, smiles.

"But you have to go back now," Kili continues. "Staying here any longer will get you into trouble."

"I am in trouble already, I assume."

"Yes, but this you can explain. Tarrying longer you can't."

"No, I cannot. I will have to go and tell the king what happened. Have to make him understand…everything."

She pulls out of Kili's grasp and plucks at her tunic's sleeve again. Soon she will have loosened another thread. Kili seizes her hand, again. Stills it, again.

She has to go, he has to let her go; they both know that. Yet there are things they have to settle ere they part: how they will manage to meet again; how they will be able to find each other; how they can know if the other is well. They mustn't lose each other. They don't know how right now, but they have to make it work. Have to make _them_ work. They can't imagine not seeing each other ever again.

They talk until Tauriel cannot delay going back any longer. Under the children's curious eyes, they make their good-bye. A chaste kiss, soft and tender—and not enough, not enough by far, tasting of promises of so much more.

And then Kili's beautiful elf maid is gone, and he almost wishes he'd held her back.

* * *

Sindarin, just in case...

fëa = soul, spirit


	4. The Prince

**Ich dien – To Serve the Kingdom**

_by faust_

**4**

**The Prince**

They find Legolas at sunset. He is in combat with a herd of _yrch_; he is alone, desperate, and deadly. He is a gruesome sight, and a beautiful one. His clothes are torn and dirty, there is blood almost everywhere, and grime, and injury. The front of his tunic is dark, wet, soaked through with blood that almost glints like embers in the orange glow of the dying day as he moves. And move he does—with a graceful fluidity that belies his appearance. His fight is more of a dance than a battle, every movement executed with precise, elegant perfection, smooth and lethal. There is no trace of tiredness in his whirling, no sign of exhaustion in his motions, no faltering, no misstep, no false turn. The fight must have gone on for a long time already, if Legolas's battered form and the number of dead or dying _yrch_ at his feet are any indication, and still there is not even a semblance of weakness in his performance. Not without reason is the king's son distinguished as one of Greenwood's most excellent fighters.

The close battle bereaves him of his most effective weapon, the bow; but he has learnt to wield the long knives with mastery, too, and he employs this art beautifully. He twirls and thrusts, leaps and slashes, pirouettes and stabs, sure-footed and steady, with infallible intuition and impeccable aim. The knives' blades are almost invisible in the waning light: they are dull from the _yrch's_ wan black blood, and no ray of sun reflects in _this_ wet darkness. For every fallen _orch_ a new one seems to emerge from the shrubbery that surrounds the battle ground as if they were waiting in line. There simply is not enough space in the small clearing for all of them to barge in at once, and that might have saved Legolas until now. There is, however, enough space for very many _yrch_ to charge at him; and they do, relentlessly.

The arrival of the small search party instantly attracts the goblin's attention and soon those warriors are engaged in combat with the foul creatures, too. Two of the elves fight alongside of Legolas in the glade, the others seize on the _yrch_ hidden in the encircling dead woods. The diversion relieves Legolas of some attackers, yet the putrid beasts seem to consider him their prime target: their main onslaught is still concentrated on him. And so he fights on, unwaveringly.

Eryniel is not a warrior. She is a queen and a healer; a preserver, not a destroyer. But, of course, as queen of the Silvan folk, she has been trained to wield arms. A short sword, a defensive weapon, for she would never have to use her weapon in offensive combat; she would use her blade only in immediate peril to safeguard her own life in the unlikely case an enemy made it past her personal sentinels. It is not a weapon that would serve her much in open battle, and so, although it is strapped to her horse, she does not reach for it.

She knows her place. She knows her strengths—even though there is little left of them, if she is completely honest with herself—and she knows her weaknesses. She knows that any exposure of herself to the battle would only lead to injury, or even death. Not her own injury, not her own death, no. But the guards—and Legolas—would seek to shield her, would disregard their own defence to protect her; they would willingly give their lives for her safety. The queen would be nothing but a perilous distraction to them.

And so, protected by an impenetrable thorn bush at her back and by the horses that gather around her instinctively, she stands aside and watches the fight, watches Legolas with both maternal pride and anxious trepidation. She knows her son's skill with the long knives is unparalleled, but she is not blind to the fact that there are so many adversaries, that they have pressed him for hours now, that he is injured already—and that even Legolas will tire eventually.

She watches. Impassively, silently begging the Valar to spare her only child. She has never before longed to be a warrior, but at this very moment she almost wishes she were like Tauriel—skilled with a blade, fierce and strong—and not like Eryniel, Queen of Eryn Galen, famous for her beauty, her healing arts, and her singing.

But when an _orch_ suddenly finds an opening in Legolas's stance and lurches forward, his sword making a sweeping motion towards her son's unprotected flank, Eryniel is ready and throws a small eight-pointed iron star. It hits the vile creature right in the centre of its forehead. It is not a deadly hit, the star is too small and too light and there is not enough force behind the throw anyhow. But two knife-sharp points break through the thick grey _orch_-skin and embed into the bone beneath; which is enough to make the creature reel back and alert Legolas of the danger. One swish of a long white knife fells the goblin, and then the dance continues as before.

Eryniel has always had a good aim, and she holds two more of the throwing stars ready in her hands. When the battle finally is over, the last _orch_ slain, and the wood silent and…not peaceful, but resting, both throwing stars have been sent flying and truly found their targets, and Legolas still lives.

He looks a fright, though. Battered and bloodied, now that the thrill of battle abates he is swaying and he seems to have difficulty adjusting himself to the world around. He takes a haltering step towards his mother, squints his eyes and shakes his head as if he does not comprehend how she can be present.

"Legolas," Eryniel says, "_iôn-nín_," and "_meleth_," and "_henig._" And Legolas follows her voice to her arms.

She does not dare embrace him for she would not inflict more pain on him, and there seems no part of his body spared from injury, both mild and grave. Her hands hover in front of him while she tries to determine which hurt needs care the most, which wound must be healed first.

Then Legolas pulls her into his arms, breathes "_nana_" into her hair, and the endearment almost breaks her heart. He has not called her thus in centuries. He also clings to her, which he has not done since he had been a child, either, and it tells her more than anything how weak he is.

"Be calm. Let me…," she starts, pushing his body from hers, and puts her hand over a gash at his temple. She closes her eyes, breathes deep and concentrates on the gift of life. But before she has woven one single thread of healing around her son, she is virtually wrenched out of her trance.

As she opens her eyes she finds her wrist held down by Legolas's blood-covered hand. His eyes are clear now, alert and…anxious.

"No," he says. "You cannot…you should not…"

"I can heal you." It is a simple statement. Perhaps he has forgotten her powers, forgotten how much amplified they are in regard of her child. She _can_ heal him, faster than any other healer.

"No, _naneth_."

_Back to the formal name_, she thinks, and it irritates her more that she is willing to admit.

"It will cost you too much—you know that."

_Oh, Legolas,_ _iôn-nín_… Of course, she knows that it will cost her. But she does not care—she is a mother. She is _his_ mother, and that makes it her prerogative to do things that make him whole again no matter the toll it might take on her. But Legolas has always been considerate and gentle, and he cannot allow her to sacrifice herself. Perhaps one day, when he is a father himself, he will understand that a parent does not regard it a sacrifice to risk their life for their child's.

"Let me at least ease the worst of the pain," she tries to reason, but he shakes his head even as she speaks.

"There is no time, my Lady," one of the guards breaks in, clearly uncomfortable with the breach of protocol. Eryniel can see Legolas's relief upon the interruption, though, and perhaps the guard notices it, too. "We must flee," he urges. "A couple of orcs escaped. They will be coming back with new forces soon. And we are in no shape to withstand another fight."

She straightens herself, lifts her chin. The guard, of course, is right. But if they do not spare at least a few moments for tending to their wounded prince then their flight will not take them far. Her son might think she does not notice, but she sees the tremor in his legs, the pronounced paleness in his face, and the stiff posture of his shoulders. He is in pain. He is on the verge of collapse. He will not be able to stay on a horse in this condition, not for long, not till they reach the stronghold. She will not chance it.

"Legolas," she says very softly. "I will not mount my horse before I have restored you enough so you can endure the ride."

The horse closest to the queen flicks its ears and shies back a step. A guard reaches for its mane, murmurs something under his breath—a soft song, a calming tune.

Legolas, however, remains unfazed. "I am in no need of restoration," he lies without hesitation. "'Tis but a scratch." He makes a sweeping motion with his hand that nonchalantly includes his whole body. It is much less accurate than his earlier slashes with the knives, and it would be more convincing if his speech were not slightly slurred.

"We do not have time for this," Eryniel says, still softly.

Legolas has the gall to raise a cocky eyebrow. "Then let us depart now."

It frustrates her to no end—but she knows it is just her own brand of stubborn recklessness in regard of her health calling back to her. Still…she can handle Thranduil Oropherion, she will not founder on his son. And Legolas should be aware of that.

Green eyes lock with blue.

The fragrance of _green_ penetrates the stale air in the clearing, the memory of a song, a tendril of vigour. Eryniel tilts her head.

Then Legolas's glaze slips down. "_Naneth_, please. We must hurry."

"Yes, we must." She places her hand on his chest. "But before, we must do this."

He opens his mouth—to protest, certainly. But she does not allow it.

Healing already trickles from her fingertips as she says, "I promised your father I will bring you home. Surely you will not make me break that vow?"

The shake of his head is almost invisible; his defeat announced rather by a soft sigh and a sudden stillness. He _endures_ her healing, allowing only the merest alleviation of pain, the tiniest hint of strengthening before he breaks the contact. He takes a step back, but reaches out and lifts her fallen hand to his mouth and briefly presses his lips to her palm.

"It is enough," he says softly, "I am well now." Then he turns and orders, "Departure."

The guards, relief obvious on their faces, glance at their appointed leader, and after a curt affirmative nod from the queen get on their horses.

Eryniel is helped on her mount by Legolas before he swings onto his. She notices that his movements still are stiff and much less graceful than usual, but she hopes that she has done enough. That it will make him last until they are home.

As they haste back through the mirky woods, she suddenly finds she cannot get comfortable on her horse. She has to hold fast to the horse's mane to prevent herself from slipping; she cannot uphold her habitual regal posture. She is fatigued, she realises, far beyond her usual exhaustion. Legolas rides before her, his back taut and rigid, his body clearly not in harmony with his mount. He radiates _hurt_, and Eryniel realises—for all that it has taken from her—how little she has given him.

She would weep if she had the time for it, or the strength.

* * *

Sindarin, just in case...

orch/pl. yrch = orc = goblin  
Eryn Galen = Greenwood  
iôn-nín = my son  
meleth = love  
henig = my child  
nana = mama  
naneth = mother


End file.
